Here is the third chapter. To everybody who is reading this, thank you, and I hope you enjoy. I would love to hear your comments.

~conorlover~

Standard disclaimer applies.

Chapter 3

Black and White Together

The sky was like an orchestra, perfectly composed, the loud soprano of the violin fading into the gentle tenor of the cello's, the high melody of the flute blending in with the perfection of the percussion.

The sky was like an orchestra, and he was like the conductor, perfectly organizing and assimilating the cacophony of colour into something that exploded in a shower of sparks and gold, from which you dare not remove your eyes for fear of losing your mind, for if you missed this sight, then what was life to live for?

She had often looked up at the sky, at that vast expanse of swirling blue and white, floating serenely above her, promising another life, and another world. She had often looked up at the sky, but she had never really seen it, and today, he was the one who had forced her to open her eyes, to look at the hope that lay beyond those cotton clouds, to look at what it mirrored, a realm of emptiness, and of perfection, a world where they could lose themselves, alone, just together, forever.

She wanted to be alone with him. She wanted to be alone, and to just hear his voice, talking about things that she didn't know, speaking, just saying something that may be life altering or as simple as what the colour on the maple's leaves was at this time of the year. She wanted to just be with him, to somehow make him want to be with her, to own just a small, a tiny piece of his time, for it would mean owning a piece of him.

Theywere young, she had no delusions about that. They were turning fourteen soon, both of them, and would be entering their third year when school started. But when school started, then they would be apart. They were not supposed to be together, him and her, and they weren't. They were completely different people, and yet exactly alike. She was the prodigy, he was the black sheep, and yet, she, the one who was declared the best thing that had happened to the Black's since the unexpected windfall seven centuries ago, was enthralled by him, who was often forgotten, or rather, overlooked, at meals, or in any social function. He should have been the most important, the firstborn son, while she was merely a girl, but she was, and that changed everything.

In the real world, where everybody looked at them because they were Blacks, and thus the most important beings in the room, any room that it may be, she wouldn't even talk to him. He was invisible to her, a fly that was beneath her attention. He had been sorted into Gryffindor, the house of common fools, while she was the princess of Slytherin. They were mortal enemies, even if they were blood relatives, and she could never forget that – rather, nobody would let her ever forget that.

To society, she was the epitome of the perfect pureblood witch. Rich, beautiful, and with manners to match. Appropriately flattering to people that mattered, dismissively cold to ones that didn't. She was already being hailed as the next belle of the ball, and it was not unknown that several offers had already come for her hand. Cygnus was waiting, but not for very long – he wanted to see if he could get a better deal, snag a higher price for his most vivacious daughter. She was the one who would make him a far richer man than he already was. She was nothing more than an opportunity for him, a slot at an auction, and he was merely waiting for the highest bidder.

He was exactly the opposite. Devastatingly handsome, and equally devilish, he fulfilled the ladies' desire to have an attractive villain around their meagre lives. They watched him, but did not approach, for he was exactly the kind of person their Mama's had said to avoid. He had shamed the black family by entering Gryffindor, house of the foolish and headstrong, and the insult of this was not lost upon on his mother. Instead of being repentant and apologetic for committing such an atrocity, all he did was gain a cocky attitude, which, while gaining him a bad reputation and officially blackballing him, also made him irresistible.

She was supposed to avoid people like him, even if he was her cousin. She was supposed to treat them worse than house-elves, for he was a disgrace. She was a pureblood princess, and he was the cocky swindler, the person who ran away with the maid's daughter, the shame of the court. She was the proud family insignia, while he was their dirty laundry personified. The only way he could have been any worse was if he was a squib, in which case he would have been smothered to death far before he would have even been introduced at society.

But he was not a squib, and never would be. He was Sirius Black, and he was dangerous, and caused those delicate maidens at society balls to clutch their hearts and take a sniff of their smelling salts. His magic was powerful and dangerous, and she was attracted to it and him. She was vain, and presumed that she understood him, that she was the only one who could truly see behind every façade of his, but in her heart, she also knew that she only saw what he allowed her to see, that she was no better than one of those silly girls in their pink feathered hats, and it infuriated her, to be reduced to that level, to be ranked so low when she had always been at top.

But this fury was soon forgotten when she was with him, for, even as he spoke sardonically to her, mocked her, criticized her, and demeaned her, all she wanted was to be with him for one more moment, for that moment to stretch into forever. She could be herself with him, be the inquisitive, pretty, insecure, prejudiced brat that she really was, and she knew that he would never judge her. He would make fun of her, of her little mannerisms, of the way she turned her nose up at certain things. He would mock the way she blindly accepted what society told her, of the way that she believed that she was important and needed, of the way that she was nothing more than a lamb for slaughter, but still, like a fool, believed that she held any importance in the world. He would laugh at her assumption that she was really something more than just a price tag, that all the people who wanted to meet her wanted to meet her because of charisma instead of getting a sneak peek down her dress. He would make fun of her and demean her, and declare her a silly little incompetent fool who thought herself a great deal more than she really was, but he would never judge her. Once she had burst into tears at his words, and sworn, because she was addicted to him, because she could not, would not, live without him, that she would change, that she would try to become better, most spiritual, more saintly, more pure, more virtuous, what he wanted her to be like.

He had laughed and wiped her tears with her thumb gently, saying "Silly little Bella, you really do take things at face value, don't you? The only reason I like you is because of who you are, because you don't pretend to be some sort of virtuous thing when you could really be Mata Hari inside. You're selfish and mean and cruel, and you know that, and I love that about you. Your imperfections are your perfections, and I wouldn't have you any other way. Don't you ever dare change."

An unspoken promise had been made that day, that she would always remain like she was at that moment, vulnerable, insecure, and foolish, and he would want her like that. She was perfect the way she was to him, and he would always want her, because she was his, and would always belong to him. She may be insecure and naïve and a fool, but she was his insecure, naïve fool, and she always would be. A promise had been made, and innocent and naïve that she was, she had intended to keep it forever, to never change, but to always remain just as he wanted her to remain. She was addicted to him, and if he had asked her to jump out of a balcony, then she would have done it without a second thought. He knew that she would get hurt, and she knew that he knew that she would get hurt, but she would have done it anyway, because all she had ever wanted was to please him, was for him to be with her. Nobody else mattered, not her parents, not Andromeda, not Cissy – it was him, him, only him. She had to be apart for him, and it tortured her, for the only thing she wanted was to be with him for the rest of her life.

He would tell her to think things through, to develop and consider, to have her own mind, and she tried to take his advice as much as she could. She had been raised to be shrewd, and to be calculating, for life was business and nothing more, and she was an investment and nothing more. Her duties in life were to find a suitable husband and refrain from shaming the Black name. She held away from him out of loyalty to her duties, but she knew that her true loyalty was to him and him alone, that if he were not there with her, she would perish. She was like a phoenix, dying every time she had to be by his side but apart from him, and reviving again when they were together, for when they were together, nothing could stop them.

She knew that if an ultimatum had been given, if she had to choose between her family and him, then she would choose him without a second's doubt, for he was everything to her. She needed him to survive, and she needed him to live. Family was a prestige, a privilege, but he was necessary. Without him, she was nothing but a simple, plain little painted glass doll.

She liked to think that he needed her too, just like she needed him, but she knew, somewhere in the little rational part of her brain that was left, that this wasn't true, that it would never be true. She was not a necessity for him the way he was for her – he was like the air she breathed, like blood in her veins, while she was like an extra scoop of ice cream – a guilty pleasure, but nonetheless, not necessary – he would do just as well without.

But he stayed with her. He left and came at his own convenience, he tortured her, he tore her apart, but he built her back. He did not care for her feelings or her emotions, simply using her for his own benefit. She was something that was amusing and slightly pathetic, and he found it to his convenience to put aside a few hours from his day to come watch her, as if she were a particularly affectionate and amusing pet.

She was in love with him, and she knew, and he knew. He knew that she was in love with him, and he did not care, for she was just another in the long list of women that would love to have him love her back. She was in love with him, and in that short time that they spent together, she wanted to pretend that they were together, that he loved her too, but she could never imagine it. He was too carefree, too flighty to ever be in love with somebody, and she knew it. She knew it, and it did nothing to deter her. It did not hurt that he did not love her back, for it was part of who he was, and she loved every bit of him, from the dark eyes under his long lashes, to that silly foolish Gryffindorian in him. She would not accept him any other way. He was who he was, and she was in love with who he was, and that was it. Nothing she could do would change it, and she didn't want to change it anyway. Being in love with him was part of her and who she was, and it was partly what defined her. It was an intrinsic part of her, and she would never live without it.

The sky was blue now, with fluffy white cotton clouds floating lazily in it, marking a perfect day. In a few hours, the sky would turn into an artist's palette, full of vibrant pinks and reds and yellows, shot through with a few feeble strands of blue and green. It was like the crux of a symphony, the defining point, the climax. The entire day was a build up until that very point, where the sun would turn into a great orange ball of fire, and the day's symphony would reach its most epic proportions.

Then night would fall. Dark, silent night, curing which the sky would be lit up with million of bright stars, twinkling, a single moment of light taking millenniums to reach their eyes, but worth it, every second and every wink that it gave. She would tilt her head back, and silently count the stars, just like she did every night, out of a sense of bonding and loyalty to her family.

Cygnus, Orion, Regulus, Alphard, Narcissa, Andromeda.

Bellatrix.

Sirius.

It was the last one, the Dog Star, that she would look at the longest. Its bright light, shining and then winking itself out, almost like it was laughing at her, or perhaps with her. On long, lonely nights, when she was confined to her room, or when she was in her Hogwarts dorm room, with five other girls snoring their hearts out, she would perch on the window ledge, and look out. Theirs was the only room that had a skylight above ground – the rest of the Slytherin house was under the lake. She could hear the soft tap-tap sound of water lapping against the walls, smell the freshwater lilies that grew on its banks, and see the night sky in its full glory.

Particularly the Dog Star. It was almost as if Sirius exposed himself for her and her alone.

At school, they had to be apart, because if they were not, then she would lose what little self respect she had. It was a finicky thing, respect. One moment it was in your grasp, the next it was flying out and making a mockery of you. She was the Slytherin princess, and even if she was just a girl in a society of men, she knew how to command respect.

She was thirteen years old, and already most of the house made way for her.

It was a difficult thing to be a girl in Pureblood society. The entire system was patriarchal, and men ruled the world. Women were given birth to only for making political alliances, and for forming kinships between families. They were simply a medium of continuing the fine pureblood line. Bella may be a Black, the highest pureblood family, but she was also a girl, which brought her beneath all the other pureblood males, even below the blood-traitor Prewetts and Weasleys.

She was a princess, and yet she was no match for even the stable-boy. Her opinion would have mattered less than that of an Arthur Weasley, or a Gideon Prewett.

She knew that as soon as she reached around fifteen years of age, her father would legally bind her in an engagement with another rich pureblood. Being a Black, she would get the richest husband imaginable, but she would not get to choose him. He would be chosen for her, on virtue of how much he was offering to pay the Black household in return for his beautiful young bride, and how low a dowry he would ask. He could be a few years younger to her, or he could be older than her grandfather. You would never know.

Bella's own maternal grandmother had been fourteen when she had been married to ninety-seven year old Germano Rosier.

Needless to say, Bella had not spent much time with her grandfather.

Her mother had been relatively fortunate, for she had been married to a man scarcely eight years elder to her. With the new Ministry ruling as of five years past, Bella herself could not be married until she was seventeen, but could be engaged far earlier.

Cygnus considered it a blessing that he had waited until Bella was a beautiful young girl to betroth her instead of throwing her away in infancy at some atrocious bargain. Now that she was desirable, and would continue to grow more and more lovely every day, her market value would also rise. She was, after all, nothing more than a business investment to him.

Magical contracts once made could not be broken, and Bella knew that once she was engaged, she had no option but to marry her fiancé, unless he died or she did. There was the other option of putting of their wedding forever, but that would leave her an old maid. She could not marry another, for her name would be written in ink next to someone else's, bound with many spells and incantations.

There was the other option of killing her husband, but Bella wasn't concentrating on that yet. Much.

Even at thirteen years of age, Bella knew that she didn't want to spend her life with someone other than Sirius. She didn't want to marry him as of yet, and she definitely didn't want to be engaged.

She simply wanted to sit by him forever, to lean against him, to hear his voice, whether it was reciting poetry or mocking her.

She loved him, and that was it. He was her first love, and he would be her last. Even if later in life she became convinced that her affections were better wasted on someone else, a part of her heart would always belong to that little boy around whose neck she put her arms and whose heart she kept her ear against when she was feeling unwell or simply needy.

Bella was selfish, and she wanted him for herself, and when he was with her, then she had him. She was content.

Aunt Walburga often refrained from introducing Sirius at gatherings, ashamed of his house, but she could not help but bring him to her brother-in-law's house. He was the eldest male Black, and he would be Cygnus' heir.

Whenever Sirius came over, Bella would wait in delicious anticipation and agony from him to emerge from her father's study, where he was holed up with her father.

Narcissa and Andromeda were content with Regulus, boring old Regulus, the perfect epitome of what a good child should be. Sorted into Slytherin, already making a name for himself as a Black. Average marks, but a perfect suck up to all the teachers. He knew whom to look up to, and flatter, and whom to avoid.

He faded into the shadows, while Sirius stood out.

Different in every way possible, brilliant. Sorted into the house of fools, but still top in every subject. The prince of the school, the heartthrob, and yet rude and snarky to every teacher. Uncaring for others feelings, or how he was supposed to react to them, how he was supposed to delicately handle negotiations. He was the ultimate controversy, the Cain to Regulus' Abel.

And she loved him. She tolerated little suck up Regulus, who tried to engage her, the bored princess, the ultimate standard, with his boring, bookish sentences, and his political views, and she obliged him because otherwise the cane would be brought down hard upon her back by her father. But she waited for Sirius, Sirius who would emerge from her father's room, his overly long hair in his eyes, untidy, and yet superbly elegant and fashionable. Sirius who would look up inquiringly, his gray eyes searching the room for her, and on whose face a smile would appear when he found her, barely restraining herself from slapping stupid, clingy little Regulus and running over to him and putting her arms around her neck. Sirius who would mock her, but who would wipe away her tears, and who would calm her grievances.

Sirius who may or may not love her, but who she would adore beyond all compare until the last of her days.

In the end, when she was about to die, she remembered the unspoken promises she had made to that little, dark haired boy who she loved. The promises she had kept, and the ones she had broken.

She had lied. She had not remained the same. She had turned harder and darker. She had not questioned everything, but given herself over as others wished of her, instead of resisting for what she wanted. She had become a puppet. She had allowed herself to be manipulated, while knowing that she was being manipulated, and possessing all the abilities to stop it. She had allowed herself to be controlled, simply because it was easier than to fight back. It was easier, and she hated herself for it, because it was the decision that had caused her the most pain she had ever felt, and him too.

And yet, she had remained the same. She had remained the same, because even now, decades later, she still loved him. She loved that little boy who had met her on the balcony outside his home, she loved the inconsiderate, mocking preteen who sat with her watching clouds outside her estate, she loved that sexually and politically charged adolescent who had grabbed her many a time in some remote corridor at Hogwarts, shaking her until she believed what he was saying. She loved that drawling, elegant, lazy man who he had become right after they had graduated from school.

She loved the spirit in the eyes of the man who had been thin as a skeleton and behind bars when she had been brought to Azkaban.

She loved the man whom she had killed, loved those grey eyes from which she had extinguished the light.

She loved Sirius Black, and always would, no matter what.

I would love to hear your comments about this chapter. It gives me inspiration for the next one.

Thanks again,

~conorlover~

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